Читать книгу God and the King - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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Basilea de Marsac waited on Her Highness the day after her interview with M. D'Avaux; a curious coincidence had strengthened her desire to see the Princess, and piqued her curiosity as to the sentiments of that lady. One of the fast packets that were constantly plying between the States and England had brought her a letter from Lady Sunderland, who was, to Basilea, a person who of all others must find it her interest and duty to be intensely loyal. My lady wrote a long and involved letter, but the sum of it seemed to be what M. D'Avaux had put much more plainly, namely, that the King's party (among whom was, of course, Lord Sunderland) had become alarmed at the crisis the actions of His Majesty had brought upon the country in attempting to push forward his own religion, and that they feared an active interference on the part of the Prince of Orange, now his wife's claims were indefinitely postponed by the birth of the Prince of Wales, and his hopes of an English alliance against the French for ever shattered by the policy of King James.

Lady Sunderland concluded by asking of Basilea what M. D'Avaux had asked—that she should discover the mind of the Princess, and draw some promise from her for the satisfaction of Royalist and Romanist, to the effect that Her Highness would never let her title to the English throne be a handle for her husband's political designs.

Basilea was half roused, half amused by the double errand. She was not very well informed about politics, but she felt in her heart an absolute doubt of any revolution in England. All her life there had been talk of it, but it had always ended in a few executions or fights in Scotland, or some such vague conclusions in which she had never been very interested; but she could understand that Lady Sunderland did not feel lukewarm in the matter. Ever since the May of last year, when the Earl had been converted to the Church of Rome (a step which none other of the King's ministers had taken), he had been as detested in England as it was possible for a man to be. The King alone protected him, and if he fell, there was little doubt that his fall also would be swift and terrible.

Basilea liked the Countess; she was better pleased to serve her than to serve M. D'Avaux, and she anticipated, with pleasure, being able to write in answer that the Princess was still a Stewart, despite ten years' residence in Holland.

It was late afternoon when Basilea had her audience (accorded without difficulty) at the Prince's villa beyond The Hague, called the 'huis ten bosch' by reason of the beautiful wood and deer park in which it stood. This house had been built by the Prince's grandmother, Amalia of Solms, and contained the famous hall which she had decorated in honour of her husband, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry. There was no splendour, however, in the apartments Basilea saw; the appointments were neat and comfortable, but neither lavish nor rich, and she had known English ladies better served as to the quantity and appearance of servants than was the Princess Royal of England.

In a room at the back, that overlooked a formal garden filled with roses and box hedges, Basilea found the mistress of the quiet house and the lady whose mind two great kingdoms were anxious to know.

It was a chamber panelled in walnut, and furnished by chairs with worked seats and stools with fringed covers, several fine pieces of Eastern furniture, and many shelves on which stood curious and vivid china monsters and vases, and low pots filled with roses.

Basilea did not know which of the two young ladies seated by the window was the Princess, so utterly had ten years worked their change.

She hesitated after her courtsey, and the taller of the two ladies came forward and took her hand warmly.

"Are you Basilea Gage with whom I used to play at Twickenham?" she asked. "Why did you not come to see me sooner?"

She smiled half wistfully, and turned to her companion. "This is Mademoiselle Dyckfelt, and this is Madame de Marsac, Anne, whom I told you was coming to-day."

She had a timid way of speaking, as if she was shy, and, to Basilea, something of the formal in her manner, as if she was preoccupied.

The Dutch lady was like most of her countrywomen whom Basilea had observed, very fair and pretty, with that glow and robust brightness that gave the women of Holland their reputation for handsomeness. She was plainly dressed in grey branched with silver, and was engaged in working a chair-cover in cross stitch. The vivid green and blue of the wools she used showed off her small, plump white hands—a common beauty among her nation.

The Princess began talking of England and the people she remembered there; while Basilea answered she observed Mary, who seemed to her disappointingly strange and indifferent.

Still little more than a girl, she was extremely beautiful, uniting her father's aristocratic grace and her mother's soft charm; though dignified and above the common height, she bore herself humbly and with a deprecating sweetness.

Basilea was not the only one who at first sight had been impressed with the air of simple purity which heightened and glorified Mary's beauty, for it was impossible to find a fault in her person or manner: she was unconscious of herself, tactful, without affectations or vanities, watchful for others, and charming in address, though with that pretty reserve that Basilea Lulled formality.

Her features were not unlike those of her ancestress—another Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland—soft and lovely, childlike in profile, with the gentle curve of contour; but grave and rather sad in the full look, and with the expression of a woman, and a woman who has observed, grieved, and pitied.

Her brown eyes were very large, misty, and continually narrowed from weak sight, her hair, of the Stewart red-brown, hung in thick natural curls from a simple knot in her neck.

She gained no advantage from her dress, which would not have offended a Puritan: the straight, boned bodice and stiff falling stuff of a dull pink colour held no line of grace, and the prim ruffles to wrist and throat were more decorous than becoming. At the English court her attire would have been considered ugly, if not ridiculous, and Basilea did not find it pleasing. She was not herself of a type that can afford to forego the advantages of adornment, and she reflected that with the Princess's beauty and her own taste she could have made a sumptuous appearance.

While thus inwardly admired and criticized, Mary was speaking of England and all her one-time friends there, and Mademoiselle Dyckfelt making comments in pretty broken English, accompanied with a little gasping laugh which Basilea had noticed in many Dutch people.

Through all her amiable converse Mary betrayed some slight inner agitation and expectation, as if she feared the visit might have another meaning than mere courtesy; and Basilea guessed that she, whose position was one of such importance in Europe, must be used to oblique attempts to sound her views.

With a half-faint amusement she made her own essay—

"Highness, I was in good hopes that you would not seem such a stranger to me, because I am instructed to make the venture to speak with you—"

Mary looked at her quickly, and interrupted—

"By whom instructed?"

"Lady Sunderland, Madame, for whom your Highness was wont to have some kindness."

The Princess flushed, and Basilea wondered why, as her sole answer was—

"I think Lady Sunderland a good woman."

Basilea smiled.

"She is also, as Your Highness knoweth, a great politic, which I never was nor could be, and hath set me to ask Your Highness some questions bearing on great affairs."

"Great affairs," said Mary under her breath. She rose gravely. "I think we must not plague Mademoiselle Dyckfelt with this talk. Will you, Madame, come into the garden?"

The Dutch maiden rose and unlatched the long window, then returned placidly to her sewing.

Mary and Basilea descended a few steps into the formal garden, mainly composed of box hedges and clipt rose bushes, with a square pond in the centre bordered with little yellow yew trees in wooden tubs and precise beds of pinks and herbs.

The tall and beautiful trees of the deer park in which the villa stood rose up, with the elegant air of loftiness peculiar to the trees of a perfectly flat country where they are the highest things the eye has within range; the air also was characteristic, being of that strangely exhilarating quality of salt freshness that in every part of the United Provinces served as a perpetual reminder of the sea. It was warm to-day, and the sun was golden in the foliage, and lay in scattered flecks of light among the flowers, and on the pond where two water lilies were slowly closing to the evening.

"You may speak quite frankly now," said Mary, as they proceeded slowly down the gravel path. "Have you a message from Lady Sunderland?"

"No, Madame," said Basilea, surprised that the Princess should seem to expect it. "Only—it is difficult to express, Highness—but there are monstrous tales abroad in France, England, and even here—"

The Princess looked at her silently.

"They do say," continued Basilea, "that His Highness meddleth in the affairs of England, and these rumours give disquietude to His Majesty—"

Mary broke in, rather breathless—

"I know nothing of business—my husband heareth so much of it abroad that he is glad to talk of other matters at home. What doth Lady Sunderland want of me?"

Basilea answered directness with directness.

"She wisheth to know—that the Earl may put it privately before His Majesty—your mind on the matter between His Highness and the King."

"What matter is that?" asked Mary.

Basilea was at a loss.

"Your Highness must know better than I: as for these horrible rumours—"

Mary paused by a rose bush and asked steadily—

"What rumours?"

"I think it would be unseemly to name them!"

"I will hold you excused," said the Princess, still gravely.

"Then, Madame, 'tis said that His Highness is so exasperate with the policy of His Majesty and postponement of your claim by the birth of the Prince, that he might attempt to do what my Lord Monmouth did—"

Mary's fine fingers pulled delicately at the rose leaves.

"My husband and that poor unhappy gentleman are such different characters and in such different situations," she said, "that there can be no comparison. I think the Prince would never do as the Duke did."

Basilea looked at her keenly.

"'Tis asserted, Lady Sunderland saith, that the Prince is in league with all the discontents of England, that he sheltereth many at The Hague—"

"This country," answered the Princess quietly, "hath always been a refuge for the unfortunate, and it is reasonable that the near connection of my husband to the throne should give him an interest in English business."

Basilea was older than the Princess, whose air of extreme gentleness further emboldened her to take, half unconsciously, a masterful tone.

"I can assure Lady Sunderland that His Highness is innocent of the designs imputed to him."

Mary glanced up from the rose bush; she smiled very slightly. "Why, you must go to the Prince for that assurance; I know nothing about it."

Basilea stirred the gravel with her square-toed red shoe.

"You must know, Madame," she said slowly, "whether you would hinder or further the Prince his projects?"

Mary flushed, and the full brown eyes narrowed.

"Neither you nor I," she answered, "can discuss His Highness his projects, which ever have been and will be for the good of Europe."

Basilea looked at her curiously.

"I fear Your Highness will think me impertinent, but," she thought of the grave words of M. D'Avaux, and the memory urged her not to be put off by the evasiveness of the Princess, "but there are strange things said in Paris and London—"

"Madame de Marsac," interrupted Mary gently, "if my father hath cause to complain of me, he must send a direct messenger."

Basilea felt herself rebuked.

"I do not carry His Majesty's complaints, Highness," she answered humbly. "I am but the poor engine of the fears of my Lady Sunderland, who saith that in London the Prince his name is on the lips of all the discontents, and it is feared that they might set him up as a pretender; and since that could not be if you refused your consent, it would be a great comfort to His Majesty and his faithful ministers if you would give that assurance."

The Princess took a step forward, then stopped as if by an effort of self-control.

"I cannot deal with these secret and underground counsels," she said firmly; "and my poor brains are not fit for business."

"This is not business, Highness," urged Basilea.

"Whatever you call it," demanded the Princess, "why did you undertake it?"

"Because M. D'Avaux—" began Basilea, then stopped vexed; she had not meant to mention that name.

"M. D'Avaux," repeated Mary, with a heightened colour; "so he hath a mind to know what I shall do if a certain crisis cometh?"

Both the tone and the words seemed to betray more interest and knowledge than she had yet disclosed, and Basilea was encouraged.

"M. D'Avaux is an acquaintance of mine," she said frankly.

"Ah yes," replied Mary; "you are a Papist, and your husband was a Frenchman. I think that meaneth," she added courteously, "that we cannot see things the same."

"Your Highness doth not desire to behold Europe embroiled in another war!"

Mary answered earnestly—

"There is nothing further from my wishes, and no ambition of mine," she added half wistfully, "would disturb anybody's peace. I bless my God that I know the life I am suited to, and I thank Him that He hath given me the grace to know when I am happy."

She put her hand gently on Basilea's sleeve.

"It is getting too dark to remain here, and you have not even looked at my roses!"

Basilea admitted herself defeated. She was a little chagrined at the thought of the lame report she would have to give M. D'Avaux, but she could press no more, especially as she had an uneasy feeling that the Princess thought the less of her for the errand she had come upon.

She left talk of politics, and Mary accompanied her with easy courtesy to the front of the villa, where her hired chariot waited with her maid yawning herself to death over an old-fashioned romance by Mademoiselle de Scudery, which she had found in the inn parlour.

The sky was paling and flushing behind the great avenue of trees rich in their full leafage, and the rooks were noisy in the branches.

"This is a pretty spot, Highness," said Basilea, on the impulse of the moment.

Mary smiled.

Two men were mounting the few wide entrance steps. Basilea noticed them, because one was the red-breeched sailor whom she had seen yesterday beneath her window, the other was a slight gentleman in a circular mantle turned up over one shoulder, wearing riding boats and carrying a whip; Basilea saw his horse being led off by a bareheaded groom.

She could not restrain her curiosity at seeing the seaman entering the Prince's villa.

"Doth Your Highness know that man?" she asked. Mary glanced at the two as she closed the gate in the garden wall. "Which?" she asked, smiling.

"The English sailor—"

"No; but he hath good credentials, for that is the Prince with him," said Mary quietly.

Basilea was further surprised; she endeavoured to gain a closer view of the Stadtholder and his companion, but they had entered the house; she was satisfied, however, that she had something to tell M. D'Avaux.

"You must not marvel at the companion of His Highness," continued the Princess; "there are many come here who are glad to wear disguises, owing to the rancour of the persecution of the Protestants in France."

Basilea courtsied her leave. She was quite convinced that the seaman was not French nor on any message from France, and she was beginning to be convinced, too, that the Princess was marvellously changed and different, and that it would be well for neither Lady Sunderland nor M. D'Avaux to be too sure of her compliance.

Mary allowed her to depart without that demonstration of kindness with which she had received her, and Basilea stepped into her chariot feeling disappointed and dissatisfied.

Mary, still standing by the garden wall at the side of the house, watched the little coach swing out of sight down the long darkening drive, and when it was lost in the shadows ran lightly up the steps and in through the tall doors; there, in the light painted vestibule, she found the Prince and the English seaman conversing.

She paused, flushed, and breathing in pants. The Prince took off his hat, and said—

"This is the Princess, sir."

The sailor turned quickly, and gave her a sharp look as he bowed.

"This is Admiral Herbert, Madame," continued the Prince, "who is new come from England."

The colour receded from Mary's face. She glanced in a half frightened way at her husband.

"Oh," she murmured, "I wished to speak to you—but it can wait—for I suppose Admiral Herbert his business is ...important."

There was a tenseness of containment among the three of them, as if they were all aware of great events and would not speak of them.

"If the Princess is informed—" began Arthur Herbert.

The Stadtholder interrupted.

"The Princess knoweth everything, Mr. Herbert."

Arthur Herbert betrayed the slightest surprise, covered instantly by a ready turn of speech.

"Her Highness will understand, then, the importance of my business."

He bowed again, very courteous, to Mary, who answered instantly—

"I will not hinder you, Mr. Herbert, not for an instant."

The Prince looked at her.

"Send for me when I am free, Madame."

With that they both saluted her, and turned into the room at the right of the vestibule.

Mary stood motionless in the twilight, staring at the spot where the English messenger had stood, peered at the closed door that concealed him, then went softly and, it seemed, fearfully away.